


Hunger

by 1863



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2019-02-01 07:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12699807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: “Do you like being tied up?”





	Hunger

Dean moves around the bench, inspecting his handiwork.

The knots are secure, smooth lines of black rope arranged in artfully designed patterns, creating rose-pink motifs where they press against impossibly pale skin. Muscled arms are stretched taught and bound at the wrist, long strong thighs forcibly parted. So much smooth, bare skin. Just waiting to be marked.

“Do you like being tied up?”

Dean watches that long column of throat work as Richard swallows.

“Yes.”

His voice is a rough low rumble, the sound going straight to Dean’s cock. There’s a reason he’d decided against putting Richard in a gag.

For tonight, at any rate.

“I had a feeling you would.”

Dean runs a hand down Richard’s spine and smiles at the answering tremor. Richard is so responsive, almost starved for touch, that Dean wonders if he could make Richard come just from this—feather-light fingers along his back, his shoulders, his neck. An idea for another time, perhaps. Dean has other plans for now.

“I didn’t have to tie you down,” he remarks, mouth just shy of Richard’s ear. “But you’re quite a handful.”

Dean rounds the bench so he can see Richard’s face. His eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted, skin already flushed. Dean brushes a lock of hair from his forehead and Richard’s eyes flicker open. 

Pupils are blown wide, just a faint ring of blue still visible. Dean knows Richard is already aroused just from the idea that he’s at the mercy of someone so much physically smaller than he is. He meets Dean’s gaze readily enough, and Dean has to take a breath at what he sees there.

Richard looks _hungry_.

Dean darts forward, grabbing Richard’s hair and tugging, pulling his head back. Richard makes no protest as Dean presses their open mouths together, kissing hard, all lips and teeth and domination. Their beards scrape against each other and Richard gasps at the unfamiliar sensation. Dean slips his tongue past Richard’s lips, Richard taking it like he was just waiting for it, and licks at his teeth, meeting Richard’s own tongue and moving purposefully against it. He hears Richard moaning and tightens his grip on Richard’s hair, earning a small whimper.

Dean pulls back, just far enough to break the kiss but close enough that they can still feel each other’s panting breaths. 

“Please,” Richard breathes against his mouth.

Dean lets go of his hair, slides his hand down to cup the back of Richard’s neck.

“What do you want?”

Richard licks his lips, hesitates.

“I’m not doing anything,” Dean says clearly, “until you tell me what you want.”

“You,” Richard replies immediately, and Dean steps back.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he says, voice sharp.

Richard blinks rapidly. “I—I want—”

“Yes?”

Richard looks away and swallows. “Paddle,” he manages.

Dean grabs his jaw and forces Richard to look at him.

“And?”

Richard’s face burns but he doesn’t look away. “Crop.”

“And what,” Dean asks, moving closer in tiny increments, until they’re nose to nose, “what do you want me to do with them?”

A long pause.

“Spank me,” Richard whispers, straining to meet Dean’s lips. 

Abruptly, Dean stands and steps away. Richard makes a wordless sound of loss and Dean smiles again.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He moves behind the bench again and chooses his toys carefully. Nothing too extreme, he decides, settling on a rectangular wooden paddle, lined with leather, and a basic, flexible leather crop.

He chooses the crop first, testing its flex in his hands, before swinging it through the air. It makes a distinctive whistling sound and Dean sees Richard tense in anticipation. Richard’s back is already glistening with sweat, his cock hanging heavy and hard. 

Dean touches the tip of the crop to Richard’s neck, trailing it down his back in a barely-there caress. Down over his bound hands, across the perfect swell of arse, just dipping into the cleft. He moves the crop back up again, touch still carefully light, and continues for long moments, never pressing any harder, never going over the same place twice, so that Richard has no idea where the crop with trail to next: the backs of his thighs, the tops of his shoulders, his Adam’s apple, his cock and balls.

Richard is shaking, gasping, straining against the ropes. Dean’s heartbeat pounds at every small sound of need Richard makes, at the very sight of this man—so tall and strong, so imposing when he wants to be—kneeling before him, willingly bound and tied up and bent over. Slowly coming to pieces, and all for _him_.

Dean lifts the crop and brings it down, hard, across Richard’s arse. 

Richard cries out, a guttural, desperate sound that makes Dean’s cock jump in response. He lifts the crop again and lands it across Richard’s back this time, does it again and again and again, marking that vast expanse of skin with livid red stripes. Each blow has Richard choking out a groan, sweat pooling at the small of his back, thighs shaking. Dean can’t resist, bends over and licks at the curve of Richard’s hip. 

“Dean,” Richard moans.

In response, Dean runs the crop along the back of one of Richard’s calves, up the thigh, and along his balls. Richard shifts, panting, trying to get more contact but Dean is relentless. He moves the crop down along Richard’s leaking cock, teases the head, trails back up again. 

Without warning, he presses the tip hard against Richard’s perineum.

Richard’s drawn out moan is obscene and Dean feels his pulse quicken. He gives Richard’s back another hard blow and then rounds the bench to look at Richard’s face.

He’s a mess, hair hanging limply, face flushed, sweat trickling down his temples. His eyes are bright with tears, looking almost ashamed, and Dean knows that Richard had no idea how much he’d get off on this.

Richard’s lips are red and swollen, like he’s been biting at them, and Dean can’t resist this, either. He grabs Richard’s head with both hands and kisses him, deep and merciless, swallowing Richard’s moans, tongue fucking into Richard’s mouth and not stopping until they’re both gasping for breath. 

Dean lets go but stays in place to watch Richard a moment longer, committing the sight to memory. Richard’s gaze is feverish, his fingers twitching with desperation, every line of his body screaming want. Dean suddenly wants nothing more than to get behind him, grab his hair, and fuck him with abandon; to see him come, screaming, on nothing but Dean’s cock alone.

Richard seems to sense his thoughts and makes a pleading sound at the back of his throat.

“Please,” Richard says. “Dean, _Dean_ , please...”

With effort, Dean moves away. For a long moment he does nothing, just listens to the sound of their ragged breathing. Then, silently, he picks up the paddle.

He lands the first blow without warning, right across Richard’s arse, and the sound that Richard makes—half-whimper, half-sob—has Dean’s balls tightening in an instant. 

“Fuck,” Dean groans, and Richard shifts, the movement drawing Dean’s eye. That perfect round arse is red and stinging now and this, too, Dean has to taste. He leans down, drags his tongue roughly over the heated skin, scrapes it lightly with his teeth. Richard gasps, tugging at his bonds.

Dean licks lower, parting the cheeks with his hands, exploring, tasting. He finds Richard’s entrance and tongues at it greedily, just barely pressing in.

“Oh god,” Richard moans brokenly, “god. Dean, I can’t, I can’t, you have to—”

Dean lifts his head and straightens.

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” he says, and brings the paddle down again.

“ _God_ ,” Richard cries out. Dean doesn’t pause. Spanks Richard’s arse again, over and over and over again, flesh blossoming red and swollen, almost bruised. Every blow lands with a sharp clap and Richard is reduced to nonsense, babbling and moaning in turns, hips thrusting uselessly, head bowed, gasping for air. His whole body is taut, the ropes digging into his skin, sweat dripping off him. Dean knows he’s close.

He tosses the paddle and steps up behind Richard, cock pressing against Richard’s arse, red and hot. He leans against that tense back and grabs Richard’s hair, yanking his head back, and kisses him hard and deep. Richard kisses back and Dean can taste his desperation. He feels Richard’s fingers, still bound behind Richard’s back, scratching at his stomach.

“You’re going to get fucked now,” Dean says harshly, lips dragging against the shell of Richard’s ear, “whether you’re ready or not.” Richard makes a small sound and shudders.

Dean moves away just long enough to get a condom on and then he’s back, hands on Richard’s still-warm arse. He squeezes, hard enough for it to hurt, and Richard bucks, pulling hard against the ropes.

Dean lubes up his fingers and presses one in without preamble, needing to be inside Richard as soon as humanly possible. The preparation is rough, basic; Dean’s fingers shaking with need. Richard urges him on, panting _more_ and _please_ and _faster_.

It’s not long before Dean decides it’s enough and lines up, pushing in. He bites his lip, struggling to go slowly, and he’s halfway home when Richard suddenly pushes back, impaling himself on his cock. Dean chokes on a moan. 

“Richard,” he manages, and then Richard starts to clench around him. “Fuck,” Dean breathes. “ _Fuck_.”

Dimly, Dean is aware of Richard’s voice, a series of broken pleas, begging him to move.

Dean starts thrusting, wanting to draw it out but unable to stop his hips from jerking erratically, no rhythm to speak of. Richard feels so fucking good, so hot and tight, moving to meet his every thrust, all shame gone, single minded in his need to come, to get _Dean_ to come. 

“Christ,” Richard groans, when Dean finds the right angle. “God, Dean, I can’t, I’m—I’m—”

Dean thrusts again, hitting the same spot, and reaches around Richard’s hips to grab Richard’s cock. One more thrust and a single hard stroke, and Dean feels Richard stiffen beneath him before Richard comes, shuddering, whole body straining against the ropes, silent save for his gasping. Richard spasms around Dean and it’s too much, it’s too fucking much. Dean grabs Richard’s hips and pumps in and out, thrusts short and frantic, lower lip caught in his teeth, and it’s only a moment before he comes too, crying out, the sound of his shout mingling with Richard’s desperate moans.

**

Dean unties the ropes, pressing gentle fingers against spots where Richard’s skin was rubbed almost raw. He cleans Richard up, subtly checking for injuries; finding none, Dean leads him to the bed. He watches Richard drink a cold glass of water and brushes the damp hair from Richard’s eyes.

“You’re so good at this,” Dean says quietly.  
Richard smiles, tired but sated, and Dean runs a hand down his cheek, cups his jaw.

“Thank you,” Richard says, and Dean knows it’s not just for the compliment.

Dean kisses him, soft and chaste. Richard is so much taller than he is, but like this, in this bed, it hardly matters. Dean shuffles up and presses a kiss to the top of Richard’s head, earning a quiet a chuckle. He wraps his arms around Richard and settles them both more comfortably against the pillows. 

“Anytime,” Dean says.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hobbit Kinkmeme.


End file.
